


Hold the Tomatoes

by navigatio



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Sarcastic Clint, Sarcastic Tony, Steve is a picky eater, Team Feels, The Eyebrows of Disappointment, puppy dog eyes, sad Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 21:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9678341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navigatio/pseuds/navigatio
Summary: Five times no one wanted Steve's tomatoes, and one time someone did.Steve really doesn't like tomatoes, but he grew up during the Depression. It was ingrained in him early that you don't waste food. So it's not wasting them if you can get someone else to eat them, right?





	

 

1.

 

The first time was just after the Battle of New York. 

 

“Let’s have shawarma,” Tony said, and no one had the energy to argue (and he had just saved all of their lives, so they felt they owed him one). Miraculously, the restaurant was open, even though it was more of an actual hole in the wall than usual. The roof had a rather large new skylight in it, but they had power and the kitchen was operational, so they were happy to have the business.

 

The owner welcomed them enthusiastically, went about righting table and chairs, pushing them together and wiping them down with a flourish. “Come, come, sit! We have no ice but we have sodas! Shawarma for everyone, on the house!”

 

After Tony insisted that, no, they wouldn’t take it for free, the man and his wife scurried off to the kitchen to prepare the food while everyone sunk into their chairs and sat silent and hollow-eyed, staring at nothing. Even Thor was more subdued than usual, although nothing could completely wipe out his natural zest for life.

 

After the food arrived, everyone started in except Steve, who opened the pita bread, poked around with a finger, and extracted the tomatoes which were hidden under the lettuce. He turned to his left, where Thor was sitting, started to hold out the tomatoes, and paused with his mouth half-open and his nose scrunched up in what looked like confusion, maybe, or possibly surprise.

 

It took a few seconds for Thor to notice that Cap wasn’t eating, but finally he turned to his right and said, “Do you require assistance, Captain Rogers?” through a mouthful of food.

 

There was a pause where Steve looked back and forth from the tomatoes to Thor’s plate, then he finally held them out and said, “Do you want my tomatoes?”

 

Thor’s eyebrows went up. “I must decline as my sha-warma already has plenty of the red fruit, Friend Rogers,” he boomed. “You may eat it yourself. It is quite enjoyable.” To illustrate his point, Thor took another huge bite and chewed enthusiastically.

 

“Um. Ok,” Steve said with a shrug. He dropped the tomatoes onto his plate, took one bite of his shawarma, then sank down in his seat with his chin in his hand and fell asleep, didn’t even wake up when the rest of the Avengers got up and walked out. 

 

They were all the way back to the jet before Natasha noticed Steve was missing and went back for him. She tried to wake him quietly, then a little louder, then shouting in his ear, before he finally stirred and let himself be led out with her hand on his elbow, stumbling over rubble and broken furniture, back to the jet, where he curled up in his seat and immediately fell asleep again.

 

*

 

2.

 

The second time was nearly a week later at Stark tower, on one of the few undamaged floors. Tony called them all in for “breakfast” at nearly two in the afternoon and fixed them all omelettes. Pepper did most of the cooking; Tony took all of the credit.

 

The bots delivered the plates of steaming food, omelettes for everyone except Bruce, who somehow magically got toast with jam, even though Tony had never asked for special orders. 

 

After the food had been delivered, Tony stood at the head of the table and looked around expectantly. Everyone else turned to listen, except Steve, who unfolded his omelette with his fork and started spearing the pieces of tomato. 

 

“So I’ve been thinking—“ Tony started. Pepper, who was standing at the other end of the table with her arms folded, cleared her throat. “—Well, Pepper and I have been thinking. This tower is going to have to have some repairs done, obviously, so I figured—we figured—why not make it Avengers’ Tower while we’re at it. It only makes sense.”

 

Natasha and Bruce raised their eyebrows. Clint made a little choking noise. Steve was still picking off tomatoes and didn’t look up. When no one burst into spontaneous applause, Tony continued, hastily, “There’d be quarters for all of you, of course. And a gym. . .”

 

Steve, who now had a forkful of tomato pieces, turned to Bruce on his left and paused with his fork in the air. After a second, he whispered, “Do you want my tomatoes?”

 

Bruce looked down at his plate of toast, then up at Steve and shook his head. Steve’s shoulders dropped. At the other end of the table, Tony had stopped speaking and folded his arms across his chest.

 

“Captain? Something you want to share with the class?”

 

Steve’s head popped up. “Huh? Um, I mean, no, everything’s fine.” Sinking back down into his seat, he scraped the tomatoes off onto his plate with an air of resignation.

 

“What do you think of my suggestion?”

 

“What suggestion?”

 

Tony sighed and started over.

 

*

 

3.

 

The third time was at an Applebees in Flagstaff, Arizona*. They were all sweaty, bruised, exhausted, covered in slime, and starving. Fighting supervillians over, under, and through the Grand Canyon tends to do that to one, even if one is a super soldier or a god of thunder.

 

“All of the choices for where to eat, Barton, and you choose this place?” Tony, who was sporting a series of multi-colored bruises along his jawline, said disdainfully. “Hell, I could have a personal chef here for us in under an hour, just say the word.”

 

No one responded. They all just wordlessly sat and stared at their menus like they might contain the wisdom of the universe. Steve silently dripped blood on the table from a gash in his forearm.

 

“My elbows are sticking to the table.”

 

No one responded.

 

“I think a rat just ran across my foot.”

 

Still no one responded.

 

Tony huffed in exasperation. “Really, you’re all just going to sit here and eat cardboard instead of taking the jet back home where filet mignon awaits? I am seriously losing respect for all of you. Well, Steve, I wouldn’t expect much better from you, but Thor? Come on. Self-respecting demigods don’t eat at Applebees.”

 

Finally Clint, who had an impressive shiner blooming around his left eye, snapped. “Shut up, Tony,” he growled through clenched teeth, “I like Applebees. I’m tired, I’m sore, and I’m hungry now. You can either shut up and eat, or you can wait in the jet. Or better yet, fuck off home on your own power. Oh, wait, you can’t, because that slime cannon clogged one of your exhaust ports and burned out your repulsor. Sucks to be you.”

 

After that Tony just slouched in his seat and scowled at them all. The next time he started to open his mouth, Clint pointed toward the door and he shut up again with a hrumph.

 

Steve got a burger, and when it came, he immediately lift up the top bun and picked off the tomatoes. He turned to his left, where Natasha was poking at her salad, and his eyebrows furrowed.

 

“Um. . .”

 

He paused and looked back and forth between his burger and Natasha’s salad until she finally looked up.

 

“Yeah?” she said. Really, at that point, it was all the response she could muster.

 

“Do you want these?” Steve asked, holding out the tomatoes.

 

“I’m having a salad,” Natasha said, pointing at her bowl.

 

“You could. . . put them on your salad,” Steve suggested, still holding out the tomatoes. Natasha inspected them with her lip curled.

 

“They have mustard on them.”

 

“So?”

 

“So I don’t want mustard on my salad.”

 

“Oh. Ok.” Steve dropped the tomatoes on his plate and returned the top bun to his burger.

 

“Oh, god, if you keep making that face it’s going to freeze that way,” Tony joined in from the other side of the table.

 

“What face?”

 

“You know what face I mean, Sad Sack,” Tony retorted, sticking his lower lip out and pulling down his eyebrows in an exaggerated imitation of Steve’s perpetual brooding expression. “Although I bet the ladies are total suckers for those puppy-dog eyes.”

 

“Shut up, Tony!” Clint, Natasha and Bruce all cried in unison. Even Thor chimed in, through a mouthful of meatloaf, “Be silent!” with his huge, ketchup-stained fingers twitching toward Mjolnir, which was propped by his knee.

 

Tony shut up.

 

He even paid the bill, and left a healthy tip for the terrified young waitress, in spite of the fact that she spilled a glass of water on Clint’s lap when she was clearing the dishes. Or maybe _because_ of it.

 

*

 

4.

 

The fourth time was at a little sandwich place outside Schenectady. They were all exhausted, but clean and out of uniform. They wanted to get to know their new neighbors, not scare them half to death. Training was going great, just great (why did Steve still have that little pucker between his eyebrows?), and Clint had joined them for some exercises, so why not go out to lunch? 

 

The cafe was called “Friends of Dorothy”**, which should have given them a clue, but Steve chose it, and Steve didn’t usually pick up on innuendo like that. He seemed oblivious to the postcards of shirtless men by the bathrooms too, and the fact that most of the patrons had fabulous hair. And that the waiter was flirting shamelessly with him, much to the amusement of the rest of the group.

 

When the waiter said with a wink, “We’re fresh out of beefcake, so how about a club sandwich?”, Natasha, who was sitting on Cap’s right, took Cap’s hand (the surprised look on his face was priceless), leaned in and said, “Doesn’t that sound good, honey? I’ll take one of those too. And two cokes for us please.”

 

“O—okay,” Cap stammered, giving Natasha a sideways glance but not pulling his hand away. The tips of his ears were turning bright red.

 

The waiter’s flirtatious smile dropped. “Coming right up,” he said simply and walked away. As soon as he was gone, Natasha released Cap’s hand, patted him on the knee, and turned back to talk to Wanda, who was sitting on the other side of her.

 

When his sandwich came, Steve immediately lifted off the top piece of bread, picked up the tomatoes, and turned to Clint on his left, but Clint was ready for him.

 

“Nuh-uh, Soldier-boy,” Clint growled, curling his arm protectively over his plate, “I don’t want your fucking tomatoes.” He was so sore from Cap’s little “training exercises” that he could barely move, so he was in no mood to put up with any shit that he didn’t have to.

 

Steve paused with the tomatoes in his hand, looking back and forth between his plate and Clint’s sandwich. Finally he said, “Are you sure? You could put them on your French sandwich thingie.”

 

“French Dip sandwiches do NOT have tomatoes,” Clint said emphatically, without removing the protective arm from over his plate.

 

“Well, they COULD have tomatoes, right?”

 

“No.”

 

Sam, sitting on the other side of Clint, sighed deeply, reached over and plucked the tomatoes out of Steve’s hand. “If I eat them, will you two stop arguing?”

 

“There’s no reason why French sandwiches can’t have tomatoes,” Steve contended in a reasonable voice.

 

“French DIP. And no, they can’t. If you didn't want tomatoes, why didn't you order your sandwich without them?”

 

“Because—Because—“

 

“Fine.” Sam stuffed the tomatoes into his mouth all at once, and then silently chewed with his cheeks bulging. After he had swallowed hard, he commanded firmly, “Say thank you.”

 

“Thank you,” Steve and Clint both chimed together.

 

*

 

5. 

 

The fifth time was after an exhausting battle with tiny bots that had escaped Tony’s workshop and were terrorizing a mobile home park in Quaker Springs, of all places. 

 

“I could see them, but they were too small to shoot,” Clint grumbled. He just wanted to get back to the compound and sleep for a week, but as they trudged back toward the quinjet, a wizened woman in a floral housedress emerged from a mobile home and beckoned to them.

 

“My heroes!” she cried, pinching Tony’s cheeks. “Come in, come in! Have something to eat!” She gestured toward her ramshackle home, and Steve of course said “Certainly, ma’am.” Luckily the woman’s back was turned so she didn’t see Tony’s eyeroll, or the elbow in the ribs he caught from Natasha for it.

 

The woman led them into a dimly-lit dining room/sitting room/bedroom/bathroom(?). “Sit, sit!” she cried, waving to a tiny card table with rickety chairs. At a look from Cap, they all squished in, with Natasha nearly sitting on Sam’s knee.

 

“Not a word,” she hissed.

 

“I’m not complaining,” he whispered back with a playful grin.

 

A thin, forlorn dog sniffed hopefully at their knees. Steve held out a hand and the dog eagerly let itself be scratched behind the ears. The woman bustled about her kitchen, and after a moment, turned around with a tray filled with squashy bologna sandwiches. Wilted lettuce and sad-looking tomatoes peeked out between the slices of white bread.

 

She reached over Clint’s head to set the tray in middle of the table. “Please, eat, eat!” she encouraged them eagerly.

 

Clint grabbed a sandwich and started eating without even looking at it. He was hungry enough that he didn’t care what it tasted like. He had certainly eaten worse in his life. 

 

Steve peered warily at the pile. Just as he reached for one, the only one that didn’t appear to have any of the pathetic toppings, Wanda, who was sitting to his left nearly under his arm, shot out an arm and grabbed the very one he was going for. Steve hesitated, then took a different sandwich and craned around to offer it to Wanda.

 

“That one looks a little dry. You can have this one,” he suggested, holding out the sandwich, which flopped open limply, revealing the sad, soggy contents.

 

“No thanks.”

 

“At least take the tomatoes.”

 

“I’m allergic.”

 

“Really? You’ve eaten them bef—”

 

“ _Allergic_ ,” Wanda cut him off flatly. She took a prim bite of her sandwich and began to chew.

 

“Everything all right?” The woman leaned in over Clint’s shoulder to peer anxiously at Steve.

 

“Huh? Oh, yes, fine, ma’am. Very kind of you to feed us.”

 

“Excellent!” The woman turned away to busy herself with tidying the kitchen. Steve held up his sandwich with a resigned expression and took a small bite. 

 

Clint had eaten almost half of his own sandwich before his taste buds caught up, and he surreptitiously fed the rest of it to the dog. When he looked up to discover Steve watching him with The Eyebrows of Disappointment***, he just shrugged unapologetically. The dog looked like it could use the calories, so he felt he was doing a humanitarian deed by feeding it.

 

A few minutes later, Clint noticed Steve’s hand under the table, then his sandwich was suddenly gone, and the dog was sitting very attentively by his knee.

 

“Well, ma’am, we need to get going now. Thanks so much for the meal,” Steve said as he untangled his legs from the table. The rest of the team immediately stood as well and they all hurriedly trooped out with effusive thanks, leaving a very satisfied dog in their wake.

 

As soon as they got outside, the children of the trailer park, who had all gone into hiding during the attack, emerged from their trailers with excited smiles wreathing their grubby faces. Almost immediately most of the team was surrounded by a knee-high tidal wave. Steve and Sam crouched down to greet the kids, giving out high fives and, in Sam’s case, complicated handshakes. Clint, scooping up a little boy whose liquid brown eyes reminded him of Nathaniel, looked around at his team with a fatherly grin: Vision was demonstrating his ability to hover to an adoring crowd, Wanda had kids hanging onto both her hands, even Nat held a giggling toddler in her arms.

 

Next to him, Tony still stood with his arms folded and an impatient scowl on his face. A tiny girl tugged on his pantleg, gazing up at him with a shy smile. The girl raised her arms hopefully. Clint smirked at the look of shock on Tony’s face.

 

“Don’t you have parents?” Tony said to the girl. “Shoo.”

 

The girl continued to reach up, clearly waiting for Tony to pick her up. After a glance around, the billionaire finally bent down and lifted her into his arms. He held her stiffly while she patted his cheeks with tiny, sticky hands, eyes wide with awe. Tony’s scowl turned up at the edges, and then he quickly cut his eyes toward Clint as if daring him to laugh.

 

“Glad we stuck around?” Clint asked him quietly.

 

“I’m going to have to disinfect myself,” Tony muttered back through clenched teeth, lips pulled back in a frozen grin.

 

“Oh, just admit it, you love this.”

 

Before Tony could answer, the little girl’s thin arms wound themselves around Tony’s neck and she nestled her head in against his shoulder with a contented sigh, despite the fact that said shoulder was covered in metal. Tony gave a surprised little grunt.

 

“Shut up,” Tony said to Clint, but he carefully wrapped an arm around her with an amused expression despite his gruff tone.

 

“Uh huh,” Clint intoned. He looked at Steve, who was lying completely down on his back now in the dirt, while kids climbed all over him shrieking with glee. His smile almost-but-not-quite reached his eyes. “We may have to carry Cap out of here.”

 

Tony shrugged while he patted his little passenger gently on the back. “I suppose there are worse ways to go.”

 

*

 

. . . And one more

 

After the first (highly successful) team mission with Bucky as sharpshooter, Tony clapped Cap on the back and declared “We’re all going to Asiate to celebrate.”

 

“Does that mean I have to take a shower and get dressed up fancy?” Clint grumbled.

 

“Shower, yes,” said Tony, making a face. “Dress code is up to you as long as it’s not skintight leather. And no hoodies. Capes optional.”  He gestured expansively at Thor and Vision. “You’re welcome.”

 

Bucky leaned over to Steve and asked in an undertone, “What’s Asiate?”

 

Steve shrugged. Natasha answered for him. “Fancy food,” she whispered back from behind her hand. 

 

“Yes, indeed, fancy food,” Tony said jovially, “only the fanciest for my little World War Two era supersoldiers. So go shave off that scruff, Terminator, and let’s go out on the town.”

 

Bucky shaved off the scruff, much to everyone’s surprise, and he even put on a clean shirt, probably one of Steve’s since it was a button-up and hung a little loose on him. Tony grabbed him by both arms and cried, “Well, look at you! Cap, your supervillain boyfriend cleans up pretty well.”

 

“Still not my boyfriend, Stark,” Steve rejoined, rolling his eyes, while Bucky turned an interesting shade of pink.

 

“Maybe not yet, but soon, right?” Tony said, with a glint in his eye.

 

Natasha stepped up and took hold of Bucky’s arm. He shot Steve a glance that clearly said, _What the hell is happening?_ as she gently led him away.

 

Even though Tony had reserved the whole restaurant, the team decided to all sit together, squeezed in side-by-side in a big corner table. Poor Wanda’s head ended up next to Thor’s arm, much to Tony’s amusement. After the second time Thor accidentally elbowed her in the temple, there was a suspicious flash of reddish light coming from that side of the table, then Thor suddenly yelped “Ow!” and yanked his arm away. After that he kept at least six inches of clearance between them, while giving her a wary side-eye. Wanda just looked around the table with an innocent expression, and no one dared to say a word.

 

Bucky and Steve sat next to each other on the other side of the table, noses buried in their menus and identical puckers between their eyebrows. Both were silently mouthing the words to themselves as they attempted to make sense of the choices.

 

“What’s tag-li-a-tella?” Steve whispered to Bucky, pointing to the menu.

 

“Um. I think it’s a kind of mushroom,” Bucky whispered back.****

 

Steve made a face. “Oh.” He sank down in his seat with his cheek on his fist and glumly continued perusing his menu.

 

When the waiter came, Bucky just handed him the menu and said “I’ll take a cheeseburger.”

 

“Of course, sir,” the waiter responded, even though there was nothing even remotely resembling a cheeseburger on the menu.

 

“Me too,” Steve said with a relieved smile.

 

“Certainly.”

 

Tony made a face. “Cheeseburgers? Boys, _boys_! They have Celeriac Gnocchi!”

 

Steve and Bucky both fixed him with identical expressions of non-comprehension. “We like cheeseburgers,” Steve said flatly.

 

Tony rolled his eyes. “Greatest generation, my ass.”

 

When the food came, Clint immediately dug into his mashed potatoes that he had substituted for whatever the hell “bone marrow” was, but looked up when Natasha elbowed him in the ribs, just in time to see both Steve and Bucky whip the lids off their cheeseburgers. Steve picked up his tomatoes and dropped them onto Bucky’s burger, while Bucky scooped up his pickles and dropped them onto Steve’s. Then both set the lids back on, picked up their burgers and contentedly took a bite.

 

As he chewed, Steve looked around the table and apparently realized that everyone was silently grinning at them.

 

“What? Is something wrong?” he asked after he had swallowed.

 

“Nothing,” everyone said in unison and went back to eating. Nothing was wrong. In fact, something was finally _right_.

___

 

*There is no Applebees in Flagstaff, Arizona. 


** The Friends of Dorothy sandwich shop really exists, but it is in Victoria, BC, not upstate New York. Yes, there are pictures of half-naked men by the bathrooms. And we were just as oblivious as Steve was.

***I saw a post about Steve’s “eyebrows of disappointment” on Pinterest. You could search for it if you were interested.

****Bucky's wrong. It's pasta. But it's got peas in it, so Steve probably wouldn't like it.


End file.
